Scent and Reverie
by rhapsomylo
Summary: He swears he can still smell it.


He swears he can smell it.

Ridiculous, of course, because he's not even in the Hale house. The house, his childhood home, is miles away from here, tucked safe in its little corner of the woods, and currently open grounds for anyone who fancies themselves a werewolf killer to traipse through. In his own bed across town his fists clench, his teeth begin to take a sharp edge. He can hear his heart beginning to speed up and he forces himself to breathe even. It's a pointless battle right now, he reminds himself. Grounds that he can't yet take back.

He tries to settle his breathing, edge back into sleep.

He swore he could smell it back there too.

It would have made more sense, really. The house still stood with all its old corners and shadows and it was a lot easier to think that something about that musty old building was familiar. But six years, seven in November, of rain and wind and hot summers and torrential downpours had done more than enough to erode the place past recognition. And then loiterers and scavengers and the after effects of the fire finished the task of taking what was once a magnificent home and reducing it to pillars and plywood and a punctured roof overhead.

But still, he could scent it. Under the ash and the rain and the mold, if he waited until just the right moment and inhaled until his lungs were heavy with air, Derek had known he had picked up on the last traces of the pre-fire Hale house.

It had been just the slightest hint, probably half imaginary, and light enough to pass in and out his lungs like an unwelcome guest, one he hadn't been able to snatch back. But the olfactory system of a werewolf was a powerful thing, and Derek had sunk his nails into a rotted old beam and felt as waves of nostalgia and reverie washed over him.

It had been the clearest thing he'd been able to bring up in three years, an impressive feat considering he'd committed his three years before that to never thinking about his home or his family or anything from the days when he was a dark haired and bright eyed young cub. Laura's younger brother. Middle child. A pure son of the Hale family bloodline. Harried thoughts broke through barriers in his mind, of long green summers and biting cold winters and dozens of familiar bodies, some older than him, some younger, all of them belonging to him as he belonged to them. Pack. Family. Blood.

It had all come back so strongly and had ripped from the corners of his mind that Derek hardly noticed his fingernails growing serrated and his eyes glossing over until all he could see was red, red of the walls, the door, the trees that he passed left and right.

Suddenly he remembered why he'd wanted to forget.

But for as jolting and painful as it was to see faces clearly in his mind, matching them to laughs and harsh scolding tones, it had been at least a little worth it. A reminder that it had only been a few years, that even ten years ago, there had existed a life for Derek Hale that didn't consist of tireless running or ceaseless bloodshed.

So of course, when he was able to return and the faces in the most vivid memories are starting to blur, it stands to reason that he wouldn't ever again pick up on what he'd found the first time. Even after he'd scented every inch of the house over, after digging his claws into walls and banisters until his fingernails were bloody. It was all for naught.

But that didn't stop him from thinking he'd caught it. A change in the direction of the wind, an inhalation after a sneeze, and he'd _know _that he'd scented it again, just slightly. Never enough to find a source for, usually making him stop in his tracks and turn left and right, scenting the air for another remnant that didn't exist.

And outside his plight to find sensory remembrance, his mind did him the favor of letting go of long tucked away memories in the forms of dreams. Short, tiny bursts of time locked inside his mind that he'd relive for only a few seconds before the memory would dim away, replaced by his usual dreams of smoke and screams and the feel of claws against fur.

After the hunters infiltrated, smearing their stench across every inch of his home, Derek had thought the phantom scenting and the memories would be put to rest. He found a new place where he could raise up a pack as well as live. In the process of acquiring basic necessities that smelled like department stores and himself and his betas, he'd assumed he'd be surrounded by enough different scents that none could carry over from a fire and six years and the sweat of human invaders.

But sure enough, as he lay down in the dark of his room and felt his mind drift under the gauze of sleep, he felt it. He felt it in his lungs, in his mind. His eyes would snap open, his mouth pulling in a deeper breath, but it was all the same as before. A phantom scent, nothing more. A low growl rumbling in his throat, and he'd retired back to rest. The idea of the scent tempted him again, but he did not answer it.

* * *

Tonight's dream is particularly painful, in that it is startlingly vivid and is lasting more than the usual five seconds. Derek can see everything, the warm oaken tones of the house lit by electric lights as well as slightly flickering candles stationed atop shelves and counters. Bodies hustle everywhere, the room he's in is crowded, and as Derek looks around he finds he's hardly a head taller than the table he's standing next to. Those who bustle around him do so kindly, patting him on the head or grasping his shoulder. Familiarity, the transfer of scent, all very important in pack gatherings as well as family ones. Through the throng of bodies a hand appears, leading up to a body that Derek doesn't recognize. A cousin, maybe? He can't be bothered to ask. The house fluctuates between ten and twenty houseguests at a time. And this, he thinks, is a holiday or a special occasion, so the house is filled with people.

Everyone is family, no one is to be distrusted.

The hand leads Derek, he must only be six or seven, towards an unoccupied chair tucked under the table, instructing him to sit and be patient, that things will start soon. He doesn't question the order, obeying blindly as he eyes the spread in front of him. Different dishes cover the table, some grown in the garden out back, others bought at the store Derek sometimes accompanies his mother to. Chatter around the table centers on the catch made by the Alpha, a spring buck big enough to warrant a feast. Derek sways his feet under the table; he finds he can't reach the floor with his toes.

Talk turns to him by an uncle with a face he can't remember, but his voice is low and cheerful. He's addressing Laura, who Derek notices is sitting next to him. The words are a mashing of sounds that aren't words, but Derek knows he's joking with his sister, telling her that with the rate Derek is growing, she'll have stiff competition for the alpha title some time in the future. Eyes turn to him, shades of blue and green and rust, and Derek feels completely at ease with how they study him, their grins as he bares his teeth and lets out a pitiful excuse for a growl.

Laughter erupts all around him and he's laughing too, because the air is sweet and the mood is light and he has no idea what Being An Alpha means, and he feels safe and secure and he understands the words of his father, that a wolf without a pack is hardly a wolf at all.

And it's despairingly jarring to go from being six years old and surrounded by warmth and family members to bolting upright, canines growing and snarling into the shadows at the stray creak of a floorboard. Luckily, six years of practice leaves the alpha with little need to adjust. He's set to lurch forward, tearing any invader to shreds in a matter of seconds, but the scents of the real world catch up to him soon and his eyes widen and dim from their red tint, the silhouette of Isaac reeling backwards into the doorframe. Without family and suspect for murder, the boy has taken up residence in the basement when it's not being used for training. Derek relaxes.

"What do you want." He asks, exasperated. In the dim light Isaac rights himself, and Derek sees him making pawing motions with his hands before ducking his head.

"I heard clawing and growling… I came up to see if there was an attack. But it was just…" He nods hesitantly, and Derek looks down to see his mattress has long, diagonal rows etched into it, filling spilling through the cuts. Further investigation shows that he'd also had an arm slung over the edge of the bed, and the old wooden floorboards had taken the brunt of the attack.

"Go back to sleep." Derek orders, and Isaac obeys without question, disappearing down the hallway in a matter of seconds.

He drops his head into his hand.

The damage to his bed is done and, honestly, will probably get worse over time. Not that Derek minds too much, he's known to be a kicker of walls and a shredder of pillows when his dreams get exceedingly violent. Only, tonight hadn't been a violent dream. That's the real problem. Though the faces in his mind are already fading and the warmth from the candle light mixed with cool night air no longer surround him, Derek finds his hands twitching, reaching out, trying to drag the memory back. He'd wanted to forget, so he'd forgotten. But now he wants to remember, his nose and mind and claws want him to remember, and he wishes he could forget again.

Annoyance fades into a hefty blanket of self-pity, and Derek takes pleasure in the loud _riiiiiiiiip_ as he shreds another two lines into the mattress.

He pulls the blanket over his shoulder and shuts his eyes. He hadn't even caught the thought of the scent before he'd fallen under and begun to dream. Maybe now, he thinks, memories are just surfacing on their own, no longer prompted by the smells of cedar and honey.

It would be a welcome change, he thinks as he pops more threads with an extended claw. If nothing else, he'd stop being chased by phantom scents. But as he drifts back under and sees the faintest trace of his sister's smiling face out the side of his eyes, the light feeling of safety and warmth, the weight in his stomach and the tightness of his chest tell him that he should have forgotten and kept it that way.

* * *

an: i just want a whole tv show about derek growing up surrounded by supportive family members who love him and then skipping the fire bit and just haiving him live happily ever after hm yes


End file.
